Calm in the Storm
by FrUKing Awesome Canadian Hero
Summary: France knows England never liked thunderstorms - and that today's been terrible for him. But when he goes to check on the Brit, he finds him... crying? Well, that won't do. FrUK oneshot, pure fluff, human names used. T for language and kissing.


**A/N: I owe you all huge apology. Seriously. I should never have just dropped off the face of the earth like that. But as it is, and seeing that I have, hopefully this oneshot will suffice for an apology! **

**I'm not going to be writing or posting as much or as frequently as I was for a while, there, simply because I don't have enough time anymore, and until probably Christmas break, I'll most likely be so busy I barely have time to pick up a pen. I hate it, but hey, we've all got lives outside of the internet, eh?**

**Just a warning, which I tell you with regret, but must tell nonetheless. You'll most likely be seeing a lot less of me until the holidays start.**

**Now. Enough of that depressing crap about me! Enjoy the story, eh? :)**

* * *

England _hated _thunderstorms.

It wasn't a simple fear, either; many times he wished it was. Certainly, they scared him senseless, but it was always the memories that drove him to curl into a quivering ball beneath his blankets. Memories, that played through his mind even when he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears from flowing. Memories couldn't be shut out, so unlike the roaring thunder or brilliant flashes of lightning. They would always be there, making him shiver and feel freezing, even when it was far too hot beneath his sheets and he was sweating enough to feel the drops rolling down the back of his neck.

Just like the tears that were rolling down his face.

He shouldn't love him, dammit.

England bit his lip, hugging himself in the sheets. He shouldn't love that French frog bastard. Really. Shouldn't he miss America? After all, they had broken up only a week ago.

And yet, here he was, already in love with somebody else.

He felt like a whore.

It was by an odd set of circumstances that England had come to be sleeping here in France's house for the night in the first place, but after the first session of the World Summit today, he hadn't been in the best state. He forced his eyes open again, trying to avoid the memories of the day, but even the crackle of lightning didn't stop them.

Alfred had been... worse, since England had ended it. And everything he had said, every insult or rude comment that normally wouldn't have even been there in the first place, had been directed at _him._ By the end of the meeting, he'd been nearly crying. Was he really that ugly? And stupid? And hateful? Had he just been a toy for Alfred to play with? And if America didn't give a shit, then... who did? England's vision had been swimming with tears as he grabbed his paperwork for the following day and ran from the room, ducking his head so his blond hair fell into his eyes to hide the tears welling there. Once he'd gotten outside, he'd sprinted a good distance down the sidewalk to the park a few blocks down from the conference building, collapsed on a bench, and clenched his eyes shut, gulping breaths of air to hold back his tears. America had said he loved him a mere week ago. But now, it all had changed so quickly. England hated change. And if America didn't love him... then who did?

_No one._

He was alone in the world.

He'd let his face fall into his hands, shoulders quivering as he forced himself not to cry. He was better than this. Wasn't he? England didn't need that bloody wanker anyway. Did he?

A single glassy tear escaped to roll down his cheek and drip onto the ground, leaving a small darkened spot.

"I hate myself," he whispered, holding in another sob.

And that was when the soft voice invaded his thoughts, and he realized that France was sitting beside him on the bench.

"Please don't, _Angleterre._"

A warm hand came to rest on his back. England turned away, stomach twisting painfully. He didn't need to look at Francis's face to know the look that was there—of pain. Just like when he'd been a small child, and had always come running and crying to France with all his worries and woes. England knew that look; it was the one of sympathy and heartbreak, not for himself, but for England. It was the one that told just how much France wanted to make it all better, make all the evil monsters go away. He hadn't seen that look in a long, long time.

It made his heart hurt.

They'd simply sat together in silence for a long time, France not teasing or jabbing at him for once, while he tried to pull himself together again. And then, finally, France had helped him to his feet, and England had been too exhausted to resist. They'd come back to France's home, since the meeting was in Paris this time, and he had murmured his thanks before disappearing into the room Francis had given him.

He'd never seen France act like that before.

And now he was curled up under the covers, crying quietly, because even as he tried to make sense of this tender, caring new France, it was only making him fall more in love with every second he thought about it. And that was the last thing he could deal with right now. He didn't want to wonder about it any longer; he just wanted to have everything go back to how it was before and be done with it.

Why?

What did Francis see—if anything—in him, that was worth caring for?

England winced as though he'd been slapped when suddenly he heard the door open quietly, the sound carrying beneath the rolling of thunder, right along with that soft French accent, clear as day.

"Arthur...? Are you alright, _petit lapin? ..._I know you don't like storms, and—"

He stopped suddenly, and England felt that warm hand on his back again, the bed dipping with France's weight. There was no doubt France had heard his crying now, and he bit his lip as the warm accent ceased.

"Are you crying, _mon amour?_" he whispered.

England didn't move or speak. He only squeezed his eyes shut, praying that Francis would decide he was asleep and leave—but that didn't last long. They shot wide open when he felt the Frenchman gently shift beside him, a strong arm coming to rest around him as Francis lay down next to him and slid close.

"What's wrong?" he breathed, gently moving the covers away from Arthur's face. Deep blue eyes met his, full of worry. Arthur sniffled, trying to quickly wipe away his tears, but Francis caught his wrists as he swiped roughly at his face, instead reaching up to replace Arthur's fingers with his own and wiping away the tear streaks with unbearable gentleness. More tears flooded over. Francis sighed, moving his arm around Arthur again and pulling him close through the covers.

"What happened today?"

His breath, warm and sweet, ghosted over England's face, and the Brit whimpered quietly, burying his face in France's shoulder before he even knew what he was doing.

"Alfred hates me, dammit," he whispered, voice shaking slightly. "I broke up w-with him last week... a-and n-now he hates me..."

Francis bit his lip, curling around Arthur and pulling him close, rubbing gentle circles into his back.

"I wondered what was bothering you so badly," he murmured. That warm, soft accent sounded oddly tight as Francis let go of him and sat up, leaving England to curl up in a small ball under the covers once more. Where was he going? Please, he couldn't leave...

England practically jumped as he felt France's fingertips brush gently through his hair, and looked up fearfully to see Francis looking down at him with a completely unreadable look in his eyes. Was it... pain? Sympathy? He couldn't tell.

France turned back the covers and carefully slipped in against the headboard, blond waves falling into his face beautifully. England eyed him skeptically, but then the Frenchman leaned forward and gently pulled him into his lap, so he was sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. England blushed, biting his lip as he felt Francis's arms sliding around his waist.

"What're y-you doing?" he sniffled, looking at the Frenchman over his shoulder. Francis smiled sadly.

"You need a hug."

England was just about to protest, when another wave of hot tears spilled down his cheeks, and he turned away, looking down at Francis's hands, linked together loosely around his waist. As he watched, one hand came up to gently wipe his tears away again.

"Hey, don't cry," France murmured, and England could just hear his sad smile. "Don't cry..."

But that just made him cry harder.

"I shouldn't love you, you stupid frog," he finally sobbed, grabbing Francis's hand and holding onto it like a lifeline. He was all too aware of that sweet breath in rhythm with his heartbeat, ghosting over the side of his face, the soft hair tickling the back of his neck, the wonderful body warmth of that strong chest against his back and the rising and falling of the Frenchman's deep, relaxed breaths.

Francis seemed to freeze for a moment—and then he sighed quietly, beginning to rub small, warm circles in the back of Arthur's hand.

"Is that what this is all about?" he whispered. England shivered, feeling that hot breath on his ear.

He nodded once, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing his body to prepare for the worst. But it never came.

Instead, France gently cupped his chin and turned his face to look at him, so England could plainly see the sad smile he'd known was there all along. Emerald eyes widening, he began to stammer an apology—but France just placed a finger to his lips.

"Hush, _petit lapin_," he whispered, letting his eyes fall closed and gently leaning forward to rest his forehead against England's, noses brushing lightly. He could feel the tears still running down Arthur's face, and hugged the Brit close to him.

"Please don't cry," he breathed. Arthur sniffed, relaxing enough to withhold another whimper and finally letting his eyes slip closed, reveling in the heat of France's strong, gentle body, the arms around his waist, the thumb rubbing warm circles against his side. His whimpering finally ceased as his breathing began to even out, growing deeper and slower. Arthur sighed, letting the tension ease out of his muscles and allowing himself to lean back and melt against Francis's chest, not once breaking the sweet contact that the Frenchman was making, their lips nearly brushing, and drinking in his scent; rich roses and vanilla and cinnamon...

"You want to know something?" Francis murmured, still keeping their faces close as he held Arthur against him. The Brit nodded slightly as an answer, a tiny smile on his lips. France pressed a little closer, their lips touching as he spoke.

"I shouldn't love you either, _mon belle. _But I do."

England's eyes shot open as the Frenchman's mouth pressed gently over his.

And suddenly, he felt oddly calm amidst the storm.

Francis was an expert; he smiled slightly when he felt Arthur kissing back hesitantly, the blush on the Brit's cheeks radiating heat, and heating even more when Francis's arms slipped around his waist and settled on his stomach, thumb rubbing soft circles into his skin there. Arthur kissed back hungrily now, still blushing, but now he parted his lips to allow France's hot tongue inside. The Frenchman kept the kiss going for a few moments longer, before finally he pulled away, just enough to see England's eyes open slowly, an indecipherable look buried there.

He simply looked at Francis for what seemed like an eternity, beautiful green eyes suddenly unreadable to his gaze.

And then, just when France was getting scared Arthur was angry, the Brit's gaze softened and he kissed him again softly, letting it linger between them as he pulled away and let their foreheads rest together again.

"Fuck you, frog," he murmured. Francis just laughed quietly, before carefully shifting out from beneath England and instead slipping down under the covers. He smirked up at the Brit, who was blushing once more, crossing his arms and glaring down at France with enough intensity to melt steel. The Frenchman didn't mind; now he knew what was hidden beneath it.

Grumbling under his breath, Arthur finally just rolled his eyes and allowed Francis to pull him beneath the sheets again, still twisted from his restlessness before the Frenchman had come in. Now he felt warm and comfortable, and shivered a little in pleasure as France's strong, gentle arms slipped around him from behind and pulled him close against that warm chest.

"Je t'aime," Francis breathed softly. Arthur barely heard the quiet words in the breath against his ear, but smiled to himself as he felt France's body curl around his protectively and snuggled back into the enbrace.

"...love you too," Arthur muttered drowsily, hovering on the edge of sleep.

He didn't notice Francis's lips curl into a soft smile against his neck.


End file.
